Together Again
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "All Lestrade's horses and all Mycroft's men couldn't put Sherlock together again..." Since Sherlock was a small boy, Mycroft has been around to pick up the pieces. Why, then, does Sherlock consider him an archenemy? Is there a chance at repair after the Fall? - A character study in brotherhood, pain, and forgiveness. Rated for language and some violence. R&R please!


**A/N: Not mine, no money. My first Sherlock story, and an idea that nearly wrote itself. May be a little out of character at times, and definitely not completely canon (television or novels)! See it through, though, and read and review if you'd please. Rated to be safe, but mainly for language and themes in the second half of the story.**

* * *

"He hasn't talked in days." The quiet voice of his mother floats through the air vent. Curled in his bed, the young boy pretends not to notice. "He's only seven, it's not… normal."

"Comes down to eat and then back to his room with the books. Freakish, I tell you. He should want to be outside, proper behavior for a boy his age!" His father, louder and more frustrated than his mother, continues. Curly hair tucks down into a pillow to try to drown the sounds of the deductions his parents made about him… the _Freak_.

A knock on his bedroom door disturbs him. His parents were still arguing downstairs, so that meant it had to be… "Sherlock…." Mycroft. Footsteps move across his room and his bed dips lightly with the weight of another body. Sherlock Holmes opens his green eyes and pins his brother with an attempt at a glare, but his heart was knocked out of it. _Freak._

Mycroft was ten years Sherlock's senior and, surprisingly, non-judgmental. While the rest of the Holmes' clan tried to work out what exactly Sherlock was, why he was so glaringly different, Mycroft stood on the sidelines and observed. Mycroft was not afraid of things he did not understand.

Mycroft didn't get that same look in his eye that Mummy did when Sherlock made a particularly astute observation, or the same grimace that Daddy did when Sherlock said something particularly grotesque.

Mycroft was not afraid of Sherlock.

Sherlock watches his brother with an unwavering stare. "Face it… our son," his father yelled and the voice echoed like a bullet through the air vent, "is a fucking freak." Mycroft winces as his younger brother's eyes fill with unwelcomed tears. The door downstairs slams. Their father has left.

"Sherlock…."

"I'm a freak." The tiny voice, rough from not being used, squeaks at his brother from the pillow where he attempts to dry his eyes. "I'm a freak and that's all I'll ever be!" Mycroft reaches out and places a hand on a mop of curly brown hair. He feels the little body begin to tremble. "Worthless!" With a renewed vigor Sherlock, thin and long, propels himself from his bed. He runs to his desk and sweeps his hand across it, throwing everything onto the floor. He proceeds to tear papers off the wall. He berates himself and his possessions with all the hatred a seven-year old should not have.

Still on the bed, Mycroft waits. They had been through these tantrums before, and would no doubt go through them again. Calling them a tantrum was unfair, he reasoned, Sherlock was brilliant. Much brighter than any child his age should be, and the intelligence hurt, sometimes. His brother would go quiet, sullen and withdrawn. He would bottle up anger and fear and hurt and then release it at a later date, usually when pushed to his end. Mycroft was there, faithfully, picking up the pieces of Sherlock because everyone else was too afraid to approach him.

His parents, bless them... They wanted another child, another heir to try and marry off (girls weren't really his thing, unfortunately), and so at the age of ten Mycroft had been introduced to his sibling, a boy with dark hair and already bright eyes. Mycroft loved him instantly. All was well the first years, he remembered, but when Sherlock was four things started to change. He was too bright, too advanced. He really was strange. At times the boy felt nothing, completely disinterested in all but his books, and at times he felt too much. Their parents fretted. Why couldn't he be normal? Why couldn't he be average? Why was their son so troubled? Why?

Mycroft never asked these questions.

A crash of a drawer onto the floor brings Mycroft from his reverie. Sherlock is breathing hard and standing amongst a pile of socks and pants and undershirts, oblivious to the tears streaking down his cheeks. "Are you done?" Mycroft reprimands firmly but gently.

His brother's eyes meet his again and this time they were the eyes of a frightened, sad, and broken little boy. He nods and hiccoughs, the start of a sob. The anger was always particularly draining, and Sherlock often cried. Mycroft's heartstrings pull. "Come here little one." He says barely loud enough to hear, opening his arms wide enough for the seven year old to fold into perfectly.

Nestled in the confines of his brother's arm, face buried in a green jumper, Sherlock sobs. He keens and wails until he felt numb from the sadness leaving his body. His brother rocks him back and forth, rubbing circles on his back and whispering nonsense in his ear. When the sobs quiet into gasps, Mycroft leans Sherlock back. "You're tired, now, yes?" Sherlock nods, his eyes already beginning to drift. Mycroft managed a small smile. "Sleep then, Sherlock. I'll leave a glass of water by your bedside."

He places his Sherlock under the covers and carefully removes his shoes. "Mycroft….." Sherlock's soft hoarse voice rose from the pillow. "'Msorry…." Mycroft runs a hand through the younger boy's curls again. Sherlock sighs surprisingly contentedly. He must have been very tired. "'Mnot a freak." He slurs finally.

"No, Sherlock. No, you're not." With that, Mycroft pulls the quilt over his brother, kisses his forehead, and leaves. In the morning, the drawers were righted, the papers fixed, and a glass of ice-water sat sweating on the bedside table.

* * *

Sherlock is 13 and Mycroft is 23, out of university and about to enter into a mundane position with the British government. It's Christmas, which means stuffy dinners and family affairs every day. Mycroft has been watching his younger brother, who is taller now but still pencil thin, for several days. Sherlock has thrived, all things considered, and he's as brilliant as ever.

"Can't you do anything _normal_?" A boy about Sherlock's age is picking fun at the tall boy as he pushes food around on his plate during dinner. Mycroft pegs the prat for a cousin of some distant relation, but he doesn't jump in to the fray just yet. See if Sherlock can hold his own…

"Please, just leave me alone." Sherlock is tense, but he tries to be polite. The taunting continues for a few moments until the aunt (or cousin or other family member, they've all forgotten, actually) chimes in. "For God's sake Sherlock! Quit acting like such a freak and just play with the boys…"

The table falls silent. Christmas dinner is momentarily forgotten. Their mother draws a quick breath and their father closes his eyes. They have become more accepting of Sherlock since Mycroft left for university, but they still have no idea how to handle the storm that threatens to erupt from their youngest son.

Sherlock's eyes are no longer bright. They are dull and lifeless as he takes a breath and begins to speak, "Oh please…. don't try to patronize me while you sit there attempting to fool us all into thinking you haven't gambled your money away. Your earrings are hardly real diamonds… no, I'd say you had the real ones pawned at the dealer. All to bet the horses if the stains on your right hand are anything to read. Best not drag your fingers through the ink on your betting card. And you might want to have your husband tested. His mistress, if it is even a woman, may not be as … shall we say, clean…. as he assumes." His voice is calculated and betrays no emotion. He could remark on several other things, but he doesn't. The family stares at him. Sherlock becomes increasingly aware of them. He folds his napkin and lays it on his plate. "I'll just be going now."

Sherlock stands to go and his father's scolding is lost on his retreating ears. The table stays deathly silent. Mycroft sighs and fixes his parent's with a glare. "No, let me go after him. Terribly sorry for the upset, you know how Sherlock is sometimes…" He stands and leaves, letting his parents make the polite apologies that disgust him.

He isn't afraid of what he will find when he opens the door to the library that doubles as Sherlock's bedroom, but from the sound of falling books, he knows it won't be pretty. He lets Sherlock rage for a few moments until all falls silent. Mycroft counts to ten and then pushes the wooden door back on its hinges. In Mycroft's absence for university, Sherlock has taken to turning all the anger and pain he feels in on himself. The lanky thirteen year old body is folded among the overturned books, trying terribly hard to catch a breath that won't come. Pale hands pull at curly hair hard enough that it has to hurt, and he beats his head back against the dresser drawers as he rocks.

Mycroft walks calmly into the room and moves down to be at eye level with Sherlock. "Sherlock. It's Mycroft." Wide and fearful green eyes meet brown ones, and Mycroft isn't quite sure how to calm them. For a moment he falters, and then he takes a deep breath. Sherlock needs him to be strong. Sherlock needs him. He reaches out and places on hand on each of Sherlock's wrists. "We need to stop this now, Sher."

"I…. I can't... My…. please…." Sherlock makes to run his head back harder but Mycroft uses all his strength to hold him in place. The younger man struggles for a second and then removes his hands from his hair, clutching Mycroft's jumper sleeves. The grip becomes an anchor to reality. The anchor keeps Sherlock from spinning away, keeps him grounded.

There is a lot about Sherlock's personality that is choice. His flippant attitude and biting wit, his disrespect for authority, at thirteen they are all consequences of being too different and having a desire to survive. Sherlock learned to put out the things that don't matter. To delete them… in doing so he deleted some of his social tact and manners. Sherlock could remember them if he wanted, but he doesn't.

But Mycroft knows the panic, the anger, the sadness and his reaction to it isn't something Sherlock can correct. He gets overwhelmed and his brain ceases to function… or rather it functions too fast. Sherlock gets lost. He tried to convey the experience in a letter, the first time after it had happened severely. Mycroft was at university and Sherlock wrote of scratching his arms until they bled. _Not normal…_ then eleven-year-old Sherlock's writing had faltered there… _but the pain is a constant. A focal point and my brain can slow around that. I need another anchor. I need my brother. Oh God, My… am I crazy?_

"Just breathe Sherlock…. I'm here." Sherlock struggles and takes a successful breath. His eyes shine in relief. Mycroft smiles. "Good. Good… Breathe again." It seems silly, but if Mycroft doesn't remind him Sherlock will forget. Sherlock takes a second breath, and then a third. Ten minutes later his grip on Mycroft's sleeves loosens and his hands fall to his sides. Sherlock's heart rate is back to normal. He is breathing again. The rocking has stopped but his head is sore. "Are you back, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft…." It's almost as if his brother had just realized he was in the room, in the wake of strong emotion the genius is lost in a marsh. "I shouldn't have done that." Even with the fiasco downstairs, he manages a crooked smile. Mycroft returns it.

"You did risk damaging your books. I know you think so highly of them."

"Sod off." Sherlock says, but what he really means to say is _thank you_. His eyes speak volumes. Mycroft nods in understanding and without having to ask Sherlock tells him what set it off this time. School is torture, but Sherlock survives. The holidays are supposed to be peaceful. The woman (he spits her name like venom) called him a freak. He hates the word freak. He just wants to be left alone. Mycroft listens to it all, and when Sherlock has finished talking he takes his brother's hands.

"Sherlock…" It is a rare moment where Mycroft wants to express words of sentiment. Sherlock is not a child anymore. He cannot hold him while he cries and right the wrongs of the world. Mycroft cannot even right the wrongs of his family. Sherlock looks at him and behind a slowly returning brightness there is doubt in his eyes. "You. Are. Brilliant." Mycroft smiles and squeezes his brother's hands. "Don't let anyone here, or anywhere, tell you any different."

Sherlock nods, afraid to speak past a lump that has developed in his throat. It's terribly embarrassing for teenage boys to cry, especially in front of the older brothers, so Sherlock does not cry. "The road is rough, Sherlock, but you were made for great things. Promise me you won't forget that." Mycroft is leaving, a new job and a new opportunity. He won't be around as much and he wants to beat that simple phrase into his brother's head as much as possible. They watch each other a moment more and then Mycroft stands. "Right… now, get your books settled. I'm going to make your amends and beg off the rest of the family socials. I'll request the same for you, yes?"

Sherlock smiles and nods, and as his brother's back clears the door he wipes a stray tear from his cheek.

* * *

Six years later and Sherlock is bored. It's not unusual for him anymore. He cruised through a first year at university and it's the beginning of his second. He is lying on a couch in the dormitory, fingers in a prayer position beneath his chin.

Growing up was good to Sherlock. He is stunningly attractive, still long and thin and sharp. His parents often remark that he's any girls dream—physically, at least, his personality leaves much to be desired; however, much like his brother, girls aren't really Sherlock's area. Sherlock isn't even sure romance is his area. His brain moves too quickly to settle on any one person for too long. Frankly, he believes his intelligence is best spent elsewhere.

The doubt and lack of confidence from his youth is still inside Sherlock, shrouded in a rough, cold exterior, buried underneath an unending search for knowledge and, to his brother's dismay, trouble. Boredom leads to trouble. Sherlock pulls out his mobile and sends Mycroft a text.

_Bored! –SH_

He waits patiently, counting in his head, until the phone buzzes in response.

_Entertain yourself then, brother. –MH_

_If I knew how to do that, I wouldn't have messaged you. –SH_

_I'm working, Sherlock. –MH_

_So…? –SH_

_Quit being a prat. It's Friday. Go out or something. –MH_

_I have to get back to work. –MH_

Sherlock looks at the phone as if it has done something incredibly stupid. He huffs and turns over as a group of boys come into the dormitory lounge. Sherlock listens to them approach.

"Hey, Sherlock…." It's his roommate—Victor Trevor. "The boys and I are going out. Are you interested?"

Sherlock considers not answering, but then he remembers Mycroft's texts and that he is incredibly bored. Without saying much, he flips over and stands up. Victor isn't a bad person. Victor can put up with Sherlock, and Sherlock has every reason to trust him. He shakes the wrinkles out of his trousers and looks about. "Let me just grab my coat."

Victor is a little shocked, though not unhappy. Sherlock has never accepted an invitation out on the town before but something is different about tonight. Victor smiles as Sherlock returns with a dark grey trench coat and royal blue scarf. "Right, we're good? To the bar then?"

Sherlock nods and they leave into the brisk night. The evening starts with drinks at the pub and Sherlock is distant but enjoying himself. He drinks his ale slowly and watches the other boys make fools of themselves chasing women who could care less about them. Victor stays at the table with Sherlock as the others go to play cards. They make small talk, or rather, Sherlock listens as Victor talks. They are each used to the other's moods. Sherlock finds the experience bearable.

Hours pass and Victor is suddenly very close. Sherlock meets his eyes and then looks away. "What do you say we get out of here?" Victor whispers into Sherlock's ear. When did the pub get so loud? Has he always been this warm? Sherlock is confused, and he needs air. He nods enthusiastically. Victor's gaze borders on predatory, but Sherlock reasons that the assessment comes from the fact that his brain is spinning. How much has he had to drink? They grab their coats.

Outside, Sherlock breathes deeply. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Just a little crowded." He is dizzy and stumbles a bit.

"I understand. You had a few pints. How about a walk back to the dormitory?" Sherlock nods and takes Victor's offered elbow. The two walk in companionable silence the half mile back to the dormitory. Sherlock thinks his head is clearing, but he isn't entirely sure. Inside of his mind he recites the periodic table and tries to slow down his racing heartbeat.

Victor says nothing and watches Sherlock intensely. His roommate is a thing of beauty and Victor has wanted him for longer than he cares to admit… and Sherlock is acting so friendly. Well, friendly compared to the normal Sherlock. The alcohol is working far more perfectly than Victor could have imagined.

Sherlock isn't really sure what is happening, but as soon as they cross the threshold into their shared dormitory room, Victor has him pressed against the door. Hot, heavy lips press down on his hard enough to bruise. Sherlock tries to push Victor back but the other boy is stronger and more muscular. Sherlock feels as if he's moving in a fog. The pieces click into place. "You son of a bitch!" He gasps (or is he slurring?) when Victor removes his mouth from Sherlock's.

"Hush now, Sherlock," Victor laughs and then smiles in such a way that his teeth are bared. His normally unassuming face is distorted by desire and lust and anger. "You know you want me…" Sherlock has tried to move away from the door but Victor shoves him back against it, hard. When Victor tries to kiss him again, Sherlock bites his roommate's lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck!" Victor curses loudly and draws back, his right fist knocking Sherlock across the face. His cheek is split and blood dribbles from above his eye. "We were going to do this nicely, Holmes." All kindness is gone from Victor's voice. "You were being all coy and distant… and I wanted you. And the way you were acting tonight, you want me too."

"Ridiculous!" Sherlock manages. "It's in the alcohol, you fucking drugged me." His brain is speeding up with the adrenaline his body releases and he darts under Victor's arm to stand in the center of the room. There is no escape, though… "You know I'm not attracted to…"

"Not interested in men? Of course you are, Sherlock…." In his advancing, Victor knocks the desk into disarray.

"I'm not attracted to anyone!" Sherlock reasons, maybe reason will work. Why hasn't anyone heard? It's a Friday! Is everyone out?

"Well fuck, Sherlock… no one could actually be attracted you either. Insufferable prat. But let's face it, a fuck is a fuck. And you are a beautiful… little… freak…." Victor has taken a step with every word and he now stands almost nose to nose with Sherlock. Sherlock makes to hit Victor, but Victor is too quick. Before he can process the change, Sherlock is on the floor, blood pouring from his nose. A boot finds his stomach and he doubles in on himself.

He's been in fights before. Sherlock knows that the best thing to do is to just let them end. Where is his roommate? Why is this happening? Sherlock retreats and in his mind he lists the named stars in the galaxy. He makes no more attempts to protect himself as Victor rains several blows down onto his torso, back and face. "Stopped fighting, have you freak?" The blows stop… Maybe it has ended.

Sherlock hears Victor's trousers unzip and smells something musky in his face. He shakes his head vigorously and then feels Victor's rough hand force his mouth open. "Suck." He demands and then shoves himself into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock gags, but Victor doesn't stop. The curly haired man retreats further into his mind. _God._ Boredom leads to trouble. _Mycroft..._

It seems like ages, but Victor finally moves from Sherlock's mouth to his arse, roughly tearing away the trousers and pants. At this point, with the alcohol and drugs, the fear and humiliation, Sherlock has not a fight left in him. He lays there crying silently in pain as Victor has his way with him. Victor finishes and crouches down to be eye to eye. "Open your eyes."

Sherlock listens, and he is not sure why. Victor is leering at him, a perfect pair of vicious blue eyes. Sherlock is certain he will never be able to delete them. "I expect this cleaned up by the time I return." And then he spits in his face and tucks himself away into his trousers before leaving with a slamming of the door. Sherlock is unsure how long he lies in the middle of the floor. He's bleeding, he knows. The tile is cold on his naked legs. His head is clearing, though, and he wipes the spit from his eyes. His mobile buzzes. He reaches to read it, such a mundane task.

_Did you find a way to keep yourself entertained? –MH_

Anger crashes through Sherlock's brain. He wants to yell at Mycroft but it takes too much effort. Just reaching for the mobile has sent a blinding pain through his back and he breathes through his nose to keep the spots at the edge of his vision away. Sometime later the phone buzzes again.

_Sherlock? –MH_

He tosses the phone across the room, and the exertion is too much. He blacks out and the phone buzzes consistently every ten minutes.

_Answer me. –MH_

_I'm worried Sherlock. Please. –MH_

_Let me know you're all right. –MH_

_I know you're not sleeping. Your phone always wakes you. –MH_

_Brother, I'm coming to find you. –MH_

Mycroft's black car speeds through the streets. From the GPS on Sherlock's mobile, he knows that his brother is in his dormitory, but he can't stop thinking something terrible has happened. He runs up five flights of stairs and down the hallway to door that marks Sherlock's room. He doesn't even knock.

The door flies open and he sees his brother. "No." It's no more than a whisper. Mycroft is shaken, truly shaken. "Sherlock?" He rushes in and falls onto his knees. His brother's body is contorted and he's bleeding, naked from the waist down. He won't open his eyes but a fluttery pulse dances under his skin. Mycroft puts the pieces together with almost as much speed as Sherlock can manage on a good day. "Who?" He growls. "Who did this to you?" Sherlock shakes his head. He's awake then, just ignoring the situation. Retreated far into the back of his mind.

He pulls out his own mobile and rings a private number. He asks for an ambulance and discretion. The Holmes' family has a name to uphold, and while he could not care less about that at the moment, his diplomatic training has helped him parallel process situations like this. Sherlock had been bored. Boredom leads to trouble. If Mycroft hadn't been busy, so self-absorbed…

"What have I done?" Mycroft stutters, pulling his brother into his arms. At first he resists, fighting back against a perceived enemy even in his semi-lucid state. "Sherlock, it's me. It's Mycroft. I'm here to help you. Oh God… the blood…" Sherlock starts again at that statement, but Mycroft cradles him against his chest. He's so thin, so helpless, and someone has broken him. His nineteen year old brother reduced to broken skin and blood, curled on Mycroft's lap like he's seven again. "Shush now…" Tears threaten to leak from Mycroft's eyes but he forces them away. Sherlock needs him to be strong, like all those times before. Except this is nothing like before.

Sherlock is crying, but Mycroft isn't really sure that he knows it. The situation has finally caught up with him. Long hands are wound into the dress shirt Mycroft is wearing, refusing to let go. He's shaking, or maybe they both are. Mycroft wipes the tears as best he can, careful for his brother's split lip, swelling eye, and bleeding cheek.

He speaks nonsense mixed with words of affirmation. "It will be okay. It will be okay…" He rocks his brother and tries to figure out how he will ever piece him back together.

* * *

They don't speak about the incident. In fact, Sherlock rarely speaks to Mycroft at all. Sherlock goes to the hospital and is righted, handed the card of a therapist, and released. He burns the card. The only request he has is that he can rent a flat. He's not going back to the dormitory. Mycroft tries to talk him into pressing charges, but for once, Sherlock doesn't want to cause trouble. Mycroft arranges a flat and pays for it in advance. Sherlock returns to university. Life marches forward.

* * *

Sherlock graduates with a degree in Chemistry. He has four weeks to become truly wound up in boredom before he has the luck of stumbling across a crime scene. At first Detective Inspector Lestrade tries to shove him off, but Sherlock's brilliance and quick wit is enough to solve the case in record time. The next week, Lestrade calls and asks if Sherlock wants to help on another.

Mycroft worries about his brother. They hardly talk, and their relationship is nothing like it used to be. He frets, but doesn't let it show. A matched, cold distance is what works for them now. From his seat in the British Government, Mycroft wonders if this is for the best.

* * *

Even the thrill of being a consulting detective (the only one in the world) isn't enough to keep Sherlock out of trouble. Two years later he uses cocaine to give his mind something to do during one of the "dry" spells. Mycroft says nothing, and Sherlock pretends his brother doesn't know. His parents are oblivious, and they have been for years. Sherlock was just too different to attempt to connect to. It's always been Mycroft, but now Sherlock resents his brother, resents the events of the past, and he can't let it go.

After the first overdose, Mycroft tries to make amends. "Let me help you, Sherlock. Everyone has issues. We can work through this… we've worked through worse…" All the panic attacks, all the anger and the emotions and tears. Mycroft knows they haven't gone away. The drugs are a new way to deal with all of it. Sherlock scowls.

"Fuck off, Mycroft."

"They have places for addicts… private places. We can…"

"I'm not an addict! I'm a user. There's a great difference. I can stop when I like." His brother's voice is angry but his eyes are dead. He starts trying to remove the IV from his arm so he can leave the hospital bed. He hates being confined.

"Then why don't you stop?" Mycroft's anger is rolling close to the surface, but he stays in the doorway with his hands clasped in front of him.

"Because I don't _want _to. Get me out of here, Mycroft." Sherlock spits as he swings his feet out of the bed.

"You're no better than a child! It may kill you, Sherlock. Is the high worth it?"

"Maybe I want to be dead." Neither brother is visibly affected by this statement, but the ride from the hospital back to 221B Baker Street is pregnant with everything not being said.

* * *

John Watson is a welcome surprise in Sherlock's life. Sherlock is 27. After his third overdose, Sherlock has limited his drug usage. He keeps his paraphernalia in a chestnut box in his closet, but it's more for comfort. Since John Watson came around, Sherlock has had no desire or need to shoot up. Mycroft is unsure why this army doctor has such a profound effect on his brother's life, but he is grateful.

"I worry about him. Constantly." Mycroft told John during one of their not so clandestine meetings.

"Then why don't you come around? Why doesn't he talk about you? Why are you his archenemy?" John demanded answers Mycroft couldn't give. Ah, there was so much that John still didn't know.

"Too much history between us, John. Old scores. Resentments." Another excuse, another hidden plea… all the unspoken words. _Please, just watch out for my brother. He won't let me do so anymore_…

* * *

After the Fall, Mycroft reads the paper in the Diogenes Club. In a leather wingback chair he allows himself to be surrounded by silence. He needs silence like he needs his next breath.

_Suicide of Fake Genius_…

This time, Mycroft cannot put the pieces back together.

He steeples his fingers under his chin and cries as the silence threatens to swallow him whole.

* * *

For three long years Mycroft agonizes over his lost brother. He visits the grave weekly. One hundred and fifty-six visits to a black stone that bears the name of a broken man no one but Mycroft and John Watson tried to put back together.

John and Mycroft have tea after Mycroft visits the cemetery. It's their way of coping. John still refuses to believe Sherlock a fake, still refuses to believe he is truly dead. Mycroft doesn't know what to say.

* * *

When Sherlock returns, Mycroft believes it to be a miracle. He knows his brother is too intelligent to believe in miracles, knows that this was all part of his grand scheme, but Mycroft still sees it as a miracle and an opportunity at a second chance. Though he's stoic as John and Sherlock embrace enthusiastically, in his heart of hearts he's ecstatic.

Sherlock detaches himself from John and walks to Mycroft, who is seated in a chair in the corner of the flat. Sherlock has the same sharp cheekbones, same blue scarf, same bright mind… as if he hadn't spent three years in hiding, torturing his family and friends. His green eyes bore into his older brother's. For a moment Mycroft can see what Sherlock wants: acceptance, forgiveness for his folly.

"My…" He says softly, falling gracefully to his knees at his brother's feet. John watches, but the two brothers have forgotten about him. They are lost in their own unspoken conversation. "Please…"

"You pulled me through Hell, Sherlock Holmes." His voice is rough. Mycroft isn't just talking about the Fall. They both know it. Sherlock has the good graces to look ashamed. "You've done stupid, inconsiderate, and foolish things." Mycroft sits up in his chair and watches Sherlock. Sherlock closes his eyes and his head falls. He figures he will find no forgiveness here. His brother's calloused fingers pull at his chin and for a moment Sherlock is tossed back to an earlier time, another set of fingers. His eyes open in fear and he exhales when he sees Mycroft's aging face, soft with emotion. Both their eyes are bright with tears. "And I have never… I have never been more grateful to see your face… to feel your heartbeat. To touch you again and know you are breathing."

John has never seen such open expressions of care from the Holmes' brothers, so it comes as a great surprise when Sherlock folds himself into Mycroft's shoulder and lets the tears run down his cheeks. Mycroft opens his arms and wraps them around shaking shoulders, rests a cheek on top of Sherlock's curly hair, just like he would the child Sherlock was so many years ago. "I'm so sorry…." Sherlock manages, just loud enough for Mycroft to hear. The older Holmes closes his eyes and exhales.

"Oh Sherlock..." Mycroft breathes into his hair. "I'm sorry too." John is still confused, but he's caught on that there's more being said here than the past three years would require. Dr. Watson shakes his head… archenemies no longer, it would seem. He walks quietly into the kitchen and starts to make a pot of tea. In the living room, Mycroft pulls Sherlock back and both of them have red, wet eyes. "All is forgiven… we start new, from here. We delete the rough patches."

Sherlock disagrees. "No, Mycroft. The road is rough. You made me promise you that years ago. I don't want to start again from nothing. If not for everything…" He wipes his eyes and looks at the man making tea in the kitchen. "John." He finishes as if that's enough explanation.

Mycroft nods. John returns with tea and the two brothers have extracted themselves from their embrace. "All right," John says with a strange smile, "Anyone want to clue me in on what the hell that was all about? Last I heard the two of you were mortal enemies." Mycroft and Sherlock share a glance and Sherlock laughs. They take their tea and Sherlock begins to speak, leaving nothing out. Not even Victor.

It's been years since Sherlock spoke so much. John cries and laughs with them at the appropriate moments. They talk long into the night. Things become clearer. Eventually Sherlock and John nod off on the couch, curled against each other in a way that speaks of companionship and love. Mycroft's eyes shine with pride as he takes a blanket out and covers the both of them, planting a soft kiss on his brother's forehead. He cleans up the tea service, locks the flat, and leaves.

Inside 221B the world is at peace. Outside the world spins on without a care.


End file.
